


Worse Than Killing Lust

by wondrousstrangesnow



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Actor Derek, Actor Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, College Student Stiles, Fluff, Getting Together, London, M/M, References to Shakespeare, Stage Manager Lydia, Tattooed Derek, The Globe, well they're makeup but You'll See
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 17:57:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3946222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wondrousstrangesnow/pseuds/wondrousstrangesnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stand up and look at the damn intermission show, Stiles,” Boyd intoned, rolling his eyes at his girlfriend’s words of admiration of whatever--whomever-- was currently onstage. Curiosity tugged Stiles clumsily to his feet, and sheer awe bent his knees right after. Directly upstage center lay a goat, its back to the audience, clearly fake and supposedly dead. This in itself was not knee-bucklingly shocking. Kneeling behind it, however, was the most stunning man Stiles had ever seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue, Act I.1

**Author's Note:**

> I spent four weeks studying in London this summer, fell in love with The Globe, and have been daydreaming of it ever since. I’m fudging some details about the shows they see, how The Globe works, etc. for the sake of the story/because my memory is not precise, but my own pathetic crush on an ensemble member from the Globe holds true (though it never amounted to anything, and of course here every Stiles gets his day). For reference, the shows they’re seeing are Antony and Cleopatra, Julius Caesar, and Titus Andronicus. Here’s a link to what Derek would be wearing in Titus; now you tell me how I could resist writing a fic about that: http://cdn.dragondark.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/image.jpg  
> (And my own picture of the Soothsayer from Antony and Cleopatra; picture Derek in this… https://www.dropbox.com/s/v43dzxorfkbhnah/10505035_10152618199739954_3059391935194162330_o.jpg?dl=0)

“I thought London was supposed to be the city of fog, rain, and hot men in pea coats; not sweat in every crevice and getting glared down by anyone with a remotely hot accent,” Stiles whined. Leaning his head back on the brick wall behind him, he panned his gaze along the stretch of the Thames before him. Tourist; tourist family; giant group of tourists led by a woman holding a flamingo umbrella; more tourists. Seated next to him, Scott snorted a laugh, shifting on the concrete to peer past Stiles at the line ahead of them.  


“At least we’re not far from the front. We’ll get good spots, and it’s sort of shady in there,” Scott countered, ever the optimist. He didn’t mind Stiles dragging him to line up at the gates of The Globe an hour before they opened the doors, but only because--  


“Stiles, we all know the only ‘hot accent’ you’re here for is the blue tribal tattoos that accent that one actor’s abs,” Allison jibed at him. Stiles flailed his arms, but Scott beamed back at her, laughing his awkward, ‘I’m flirting’ laugh. Freakin’ Scott, smitten like the tiny kitten he was. Well, more a puppy, really, with his dopey eyes and his crooked-jawed smile. But kitten rhymed, so Stiles stuck by it. In his head. To himself.  


“I am not just here for some ensemble actor with insane abdominals and pecs that make me want to cry and eyes with so many colors I can’t even describe them and an ass that makes a kilt look like a sin.”  
Scott leveled him with a look.  


“I am not here for that. I am here for culture. For theatre. For Shakespeare.”  


“For dat ass,” came the inappropriate holler of an unmistakable blonde striding their way. Erica grinned her Cherish smile down at Stiles as he blushed before poking her toe in between him and Scott. “Move over. Boyd’s bringing us scones and I want to sit and eat mine like the classy-ass lady I am.”  


“Ooh! Scones!” Scott trilled. His pup-like excitement about all things stereotypically Brit had not worn off in their three weeks there so far. Stiles still saw the glint in his eye whenever someone said Leicester or cheers. They had been planning their study abroad in London since freshman year, finally making it ‘across the pond’ for a month the summer before their last year in undergrad. Stiles had done more research for this trip than any project in his life. One June morning at four a.m. found him down a Wiki-rabbit hole researching a church made of bones somewhere near Prague, when he swore he had just been trying to find out more about Westminster Abbey. He was ready. He knew which shows they had to see, when the Festival of Love had food trucks out on South Bank, and what time of day to get tickets for the London Eye so they’d be sure to see the city at its perfect sunset. He was more than ready.  


What he hadn’t been ready for was Derek. Derek Hale, 26, ensemble, featured in _Julius Caesar, Antony and Cleopatra,_ and _Titus Andronicus_ at The Globe, July through August, 2014. Beacon Hills, CA, native; previously seen in various productions at La Jolla Playhouse; currently a visiting artist in residence in London.  


And the sexiest man Stiles had ever seen speak in verse.

**Two Weeks Earlier**

Stiles had prepared to wait in line for a great spot in the groundlings section of the theatre their first time there, practically bouncing out of his Chuck Taylors as he waited for the chance to push to the edge of the stage. Sweat plastered his skinny jeans tighter to his legs uncomfortably, but the ardent theatre major refused to be fazed. He’d beaten out a crowd of clueless high schoolers for a perfect spot at their first show, front and center at the edge of the stage. Prime groundling real estate. Antony and Cleopatra, he read off the program he’d purchased. His first show at The Globe, the theatre he’d read and dreamed about since high school. Being in the same spot-- reconstructed, sure, he knew that-- that people had once seen Shakespeare’s original productions kept a giddy excitement running through his gangly limbs. He could pretend he was in ancient Egypt for a few hours, forget the exhaustion of Day Three jet-lag in favor of a trip to see the most famous Queen of the Nile and her star-crossed love. The excitement of it all overrode the fact that he had gotten less than three hours of sleep, the lovely by-product of his internal clock still set to Pacific Time with home, Beacon Hills.  


Boyd had sidled up to his left, Erica barreling into a hug from behind that spun them both around until the couple was situated snugly at the front of the stage, arms wrapped contentedly around each other’s middles. Stiles smiled mildly at them before leaning his sleep-heavy head on the stage before him. Standing as groundlings had its advantages: one could simply lean against the actual stage the whole show, if you’re close enough, and be near enough to the actors to feel fully immersed in the action. The disadvantage, of course, being the standing. For three hours. Surrounded by people on all sides. In the smothering heat of an uncharacteristically hot London summer.  


Stiles felt stifled. Ignoring the possible splinter he felt poking his cheek from the stage floor, Stiles wondered to himself whether he would ever be lucky enough to have what Erica and Boyd shared. He wanted someone to watch shows with, arms wrapped around each other, sharing an experience and then talking about it over tea later, where tea turned into dinner, and dinner turned into moonlit walks along the Thames, turned into holding hands on the train ride home, turned into kisses at the door of their shared flat, turned into more than that behind closed doors, turned into kisses in bed in the morning with tea again…  


He’d let his mind wander down this romantic fantasy path before, dreaming of some London romance like he was in an early 2000’s Amanda Bynes comedy. It wouldn’t do to dwell on made up scenarios. There was too much to see and do, without letting his mind create some impossible London summer romance. There were sights to see, shows to line up for student rush at 6 am, and 99pence McFlurries to enjoy every night on the way back to their dorms after a full day on the town. Crunchie McFlurries would have to fill that place in his heart where a London fling should have been. Cheap McFlurries and pints of hard cider on tap: two discoveries that had made his time in London so far an exceedingly sense-satisfying experience. The third discovery, of course, being Derek Hale.  


Crashing cymbals brought Stiles back from his romantic revery, and he jerked his head up to see the first actors taking the stage. Excitement vibrated through him as he took in everything he could, perfectly enthralled. He was here! At The Globe! Watching his first, but decidedly not last, show on the stage he had dreamt about for years. He tried to soak in every word, following the story in delighted rapture. By the time intermission came, his feet were sore and his back was stiff from standing, but he was thrumming with the thrill of live theatre. With a contented sigh, Stiles sunk down to sit on the ground, leaning back against the stage, grateful for the brief reprieve for his tired feet.  


“Having fun yet?” Boyd nudged him with his toe. Stiles had been so captivated during one scene he had looped his arm through Boyd’s, sighing and leaning on the much larger man’s biceps. Erica had been highly amused. Boyd had pretended not to be.  


“It’s just all so...so…!” Stiles flailed his arms for emphasis, unable to put his rapture into words.  


“Toned,” Erica filled in for him from where she stood, eyes fixed on the stage. Stiles quirked his head at her, still seated.  


“I mean, I would say more like, polished, or well-executed. The transitions were really streamlined, which you know is one of my pet peeves, and I love the music, but I don’t know if ‘toned’ is the right word, y’know?”  


“Oh, it’s the right word. So are ‘tan,’ and ‘sexy.’”  


“Ew, no, Antony is like 50 and super pale, what are you--”  


“Stand up and look at the damn intermission show, Stiles,” Boyd intoned, rolling his eyes at his girlfriend’s words of admiration of whatever--whomever-- was currently onstage. Curiosity tugged Stiles clumsily to his feet, and sheer awe bent his knees right after. Directly upstage center lay a goat, its back to the audience, clearly fake and supposedly dead. This in itself was not knee-bucklingly shocking. Kneeling behind it, however, was the most stunning man Stiles had ever seen.  


Incense smoke swirled over the goat’s body, flowing from the sticks held in sturdy hands. Round biceps flexed as the man’s arms undulated over his sacrifice, bare and glistening with sweat. A swath of dark hair peeked out beneath a short, beaded vest, covering the impressive swell of muscles down the man’s chest and exposed stomach. Stiles’ eyes roamed upwards from there, drawn to the incantations tumbling from the actor’s mouth. Stubble darkened his already tan complexion, matching black hair swept expertly from his now closed eyes. In a flash of motion, the man plunged his hand into the goat’s seeping belly. Oozing blood covered the entrails in his hands, but he merely lifted the organs to his face, eyes still closed, and breathed in deeply. The crowd held its breath as it watched him, transfixed. Slowly, the man began counting segments of the organ, as if on a rosary, continuing to chant louder and louder. As his voice rose, Stiles leaned further in towards the mysterious man onstage. The ceremony may have been fake, but the bewitching energy of the stranger was indescribably real. Stiles had to know what was happening, desperate to be a part of this moment with such a beautiful stranger.  


As if in answer to his prayers, the actor’s chants hit a peak and cut off, and his eyes flashed open to stare directly at Stiles. In the silence, neither moved. Stiles couldn’t have looked away even if the theatre was sinking into the Thames behind him. The moment felt magical, and some logical part of his brain told Stiles that, yes, this was a scene that had been directed to be magical, it was a soothsayer and a goat and divination from its entrails, it was meant to feel this way-- but he couldn’t help the kickup in his heartbeat when the man not only held his gaze, but subtly smirked. Stiles stood a little straighter, not breaking eye contact.  


The soothsayer began slowly wending the entrails through his fingers, twisting and contorting the fake meat like a snake gliding over his hands. Stiles tore his eyes from the man’s impossibly green (and gold? and hazel? and sex? He needed Shakespeare’s language to possibly encompass them) eyes to watch him work the prop through his hands with ease. How was this so sexy? It was literally a grown man playing with the bloody, plastic recreation of the insides of a goat. But, Stiles could imagine what else he might be able to do with those hands, and gulped. No one would need any skills of divination to read his guts right now-- pure butterflies.  


Cymbals crashed, bringing Stiles back to reality once again. His soothsayer had been drawn back into his task, deftly examining the goat’s remains and chanting once again. The music began pulsing and swelling behind him as he found more and more ill portents. With a final rush of drums, the soothsayer disgorged his final clue, raising the goat’s blackened heart high over his head. He frantically packed his things, scrambling to drag the goat back to his exit as the fanfare for Antony began to blare. Just before he turned to flee, the man paused, staring out into the crowd. As the actor’s eyes swept the sea of groundlings, Stiles propped himself up on the stage by his elbows, holding his chin in his hands impishly. The man glanced down at him, and Stiles took his chance. He stared him down...and winked.  


The actor froze for just a split second, and Stiles internally fist-pumped at having caught him off-guard. Not to be outdone, the man simply flicked a smattering of blood off his hand directly into Stiles’ beaming face. He took his exit, and Boyd had to stifle Stiles’ cackles for the next three scenes.


	2. Act I.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “An American werewolf in London? Seems a little cliché.” Stiles jumped at Derek’s comment, nearly toppling the leftover pint glasses in front of him. His cheeks flushed under Derek’s gaze, obviously embarrassed at Derek’s attempt at humor. _Very smooth,_ he chided himself. _Make the cheesiest reference possible, that’ll make him like you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeey remember when I said I would update weekly...? Heheheheh wow I am so sorry here's the next chapter please forgive me for my laziness. Thank you to Red_City for her beta/everything ever. I’ve included some notes at the bottom to help with some theatre terminology for those who might not be familiar. It only spoils one dumb joke, so feel free to go there first if you feel the need.  
> Also, pegasusrose99 informed me that the link to the soothsayer picture wasn’t working (thank you!), so here’s the fixed link (it’s also fixed on the first chapter, now): https://www.dropbox.com/s/v43dzxorfkbhnah/10505035_10152618199739954_3059391935194162330_o.jpg?dl=0

“I flicked blood on a kid today.” Derek finished wiping the last of the stage blood from his neck and arms, making smirking eye contact with his stage manager through the dressing room mirror. He raised his eyebrows at her; waiting for the retort he knew was coming. Lydia didn’t appreciate anything going outside of her perfectly determined plan, especially in a show as intricate and important as their summer debut at The Globe. They’d worked together since college, both ending up at the La Jolla Playhouse and finally here, in their dream jobs in London. Derek often couldn’t believe it had really happened for them. Lydia had never had such doubts. She was the most determined person he knew, but their history had shown him her soft inside and made them lifelong friends. Here in a foreign country—“ _How foreign do you think England is, Derek? Honestly, you’ve watched too many_ Taken _movies._ ”—he was grateful for Lydia’s grounding presence, even as she squinted her eyes to glare him down shrewdly.  


“I know. Don’t look so smug. You’re lucky he was too busy ogling you for the rest of the show to want to sue us.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “He wasn’t _ogling_ me, come on, Lyds. Half the reason people pay to be groundlings is for the interaction. I just wanted to make sure he got his money’s worth.”

“He paid 5£ just like everybody else squashed into the pit, but I didn’t see any of them making you fumble with your entrails.”

“How do you manage to make that sound both dirty and like a note?”

“Because it’s both,” she quipped, flicking her ginger curls over one shoulder. “Don’t lose focus, hon. That’s my _official_ note. And my _un_ official note is that you should get your cute butt changed and meet us in the lobby in seven because we are going to the pub to celebrate in true American-in-London style,”

“Thank you, ‘seven,’” Derek mockingly replied, earning himself a slap upside the head by the manicured hand not clutching Lydia’s calling binder. She sashayed away in her stiletto heels and all black ensemble, looking ever the image of power and poise. Derek often wondered to himself how she managed to do this job in a pencil skirt and heels, but he’d learned better than to ever question his stage manager.

  


Instead, his mind wandered to the show he’d just finished—his first at The Globe, a milestone in his life. He felt electric, alive. His usually dour expression refused to settle onto his face, a gentle smile curling at his lips instead. He thought back to his favorite moments of the afternoon: the dance-like battle sequences, rousing the crowd for Antony, the young man he’d interacted with during intermission…

He’d been so invested in his actions, so in the moment with his character that the amber eyes locked on his had startled him out of his carefully practiced ritual. Derek prided himself on his professionalism and simply worked to incorporate the situation into his acting. _What’s real for me is what’s real for the character,_ he’d reminded himself. And the brunette bouncing on his heels, rocking his thin frame into the stage in time with the drums was very real to him. He couldn’t help drawing out the sequence, locking eyes with the pale younger man as long as he could. Counting the symbolic knots in the entrails turned to counting the moles on the groundling’s face in his imagination. Derek felt himself blush. The pull of this guy’s eyes, lips, _energy_ had been enlivening; he’d wanted to show off for him, put on the best show he could. And the cheeky bastard had gone with it, had _winked_ even—Derek chuckled at the memory. He hadn’t expected Londoners to be so forward, but then again, the guy was probably some tourist he’d never see again, so why did it matter? A memorable opening; a fun story to tell for both of them, and that’s it.

Purple henley pulled snugly over his broad torso, Derek grabbed his personal effects from the counter and flicked off the lights around the dressing room mirror. He sent a cursory nod in goodbye towards the other actors down the row of mirrors still inside. His heavy footsteps echoed in the narrow stairwell as he headed into the hall connecting the backstage to the lobby exit. His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out with a quirk of a smile. He knew who it would be.

  
__**Cora:** Deeeeeereeeeeekkkkk  
**Derek:** What.  
**Cora:** where are youuuuuu come heeeere i’m hungryyyyy  
**Derek:** Dragging out your words isn’t going to make me walk faster.  
**Cora:** :[ get your sour pants to this pub i did not travel a bajillion miles to see you and Isaac to not even actually SEE you  
**Derek:** You came 10,000 miles not a bajillion.  
**Cora:** Isaac is already here, what is taking you so long?????  
**Derek:** I’m on my way, calm down.  
**Cora:** i havent seen you in months i have no calm get your butt down here or i’m telling mom  
**Derek:** I’ll see you soon. Lydia’s coming too.  
**Cora:** [] [] [] [] [] [] [] []  


Derek scrunched his eyebrows at his phone in confusion. He’d reached the lobby by now and showed his phone to an already impatient Lydia. “What do the boxes mean?”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Her response was met with a further furrowing of eyebrows. “It’s supposed to be emojis. You don’t have emojis installed on your phone yet?”

“I’ve been a little busy,” Derek answered tersely, attempting to snatch back his phone. He had barely entered his phone contacts since coming to the UK, not wanting to be hassled with all the overseas charges and clutter of a life he’d left behind. He didn’t care about _emojis,_ no matter how much they seemed to mean to his sister. 

“Ah-ah-ah, patience! And...there. You’re in the 21st century now, Derek.” Lydia handed him back his phone, having updated his settings while he groused.

“Don’t remind me,” the actor grumbled.

“You get to spend three hours a day pretending to be somewhere else, the least you can do in your spare time is join the rest of us in the real world. Get the door for me.” The pair passed through the building’s glass doors, Derek dutifully holding them open for Lydia, and then the next six people leaving behind her. Two of them seemed to recognize him from the show, nearly stopping to say something, but under his surly glare and imposing stature the two girls merely giggled and turned the corner, talking animatedly as they glanced back over their shoulders at him. Derek caught his stage manager’s eye and grimaced. His social awkwardness was never in more plain view than when confronted with “raging fans,” as Isaac had once called them. Taking a compliment from someone he loved was hard enough, and Derek lacked any kind of poise when strangers appreciated his work. That wasn’t why he acted, and he wished it wasn’t part of the job description.

“I’d stay onstage one hundred percent of the time, if I could,” he grumbled.

“You can’t hide behind characters forever, hon. Real life can be fun! Even if it’s not in verse.”

“I like prose, too.”

“Don’t be clever, that’s my job. You use being an actor to avoid making real contact with people, Derek--don’t turn that sour face on me, you know I only speak the truth.” Derek stared off towards the Thames to his left, adamantly trying to ignore his friend’s honesty as they walked. He felt stiff and uncomfortable under her scrutiny. Not for the first time he wondered how he came to be surrounded by women able to suss out his innermost person while also bossing him around like a toddler at a tea party. He blames his mother.

“Derek, _Derek,_ I need you to actually listen to me, now,” Lydia huffed, yanking on his arm. Brought to a halt in his thoughts and his steps, Derek realized they’d reached the pub without him even noticing. “This summer is as much about building your career through the roles you play as it is about building your career through the people you know. You’re a terrific actor-- _don’t roll your eyes at me--_ and I want to see you happy. Don’t clam up. Stay for at least an hour. I’ll be timing you.”

Derek held Lydia’s earnest gaze for a beat.

“You done?”

A disappointed huff escaped the redhead’s pert nose. “What asocial fools these mortals be.” Derek rolled his eyes again. “Don’t blame me when Isaac doesn’t bother introducing you to any of his cute friends.” Lydia turned on her heel and crossed the street towards the pub, not deigning to look back.

“Isaac brought friends?” Derek called half-heartedly after her. Then, to himself, “Isaac _has_ friends?”

  


Inside the pub, poorly-lit tables littered the restaurant around a curved oak bar. A decidedly real boar’s head hung in the center of the mirrored wall behind the bar, sneering down at patrons and staff alike. Derek loved the Boar’s Head Inn. The atmosphere was always comfortable, the service passable, and the reference to Falstaff’s favorite haunt endeared the dive to many Globe artists. Thankfully, it was just enough off the beaten path to not be swamped with tourists-- though Derek noticed the two giggling Globe goers he’d held the door for excitedly jabbering at a corner table. He steered far left of the teens, hoping to avoid further ‘actor-factor’ gushing, as Isaac had once dubbed it. He never seemed bothered by the attention that came with performing. The blonde could chat for hours after a show with anyone who approached him. Derek envied the younger man’s ease with the public, though not the frequent cheek pinches or unsubtle ass-grabs from the more forward patrons. He was glad to steer clear of the masses and their inane questions: “How do you _memorize_ all that?” “Did you pick your own costume?” “Who wrote this play again?” Derek tried not to begrudge them for their innocence, but nonetheless itched for more stimulating points of conversation about his work. As all these thoughts sloshed through his head for the millionth time, Derek picked his way through the sea of tables for the corner booth that had become his group’s unofficial ‘spot.’ Since rehearsals began at the end of spring, he, Isaac, Lydia, and whomever else joined them would crowd into the cushioned corner, blessedly cut off from most of the bar clamor. Tonight, the group around their table was particularly special, warranting a rare full smile from Derek as he approached.

  


“ _Bro!_ ” Cora exclaimed, throwing up her hands from where they had been cradling her pint glass. “Move, dummies, move, move,” she fretted, shoving her way out from under Isaac’s arm and past three people with their backs to Derek. His sister stumbled over the last guy in the booth, who jumped out of the way to quickly help her out--managing to knock directly into Derek.

“Sorry, man, I’ve still got bambi-legs from the jet lag and _oh my god it’s you,_ ” the stranger rambled, using Derek’s forearms for support out of the booth before clutching them a smidgen tighter as his speech faltered out. Derek stared helplessly down at the young brunet, overwhelmed, before recognition caught him up with the verbose mouth before him. The mouth belonging to the groundling he’d flicked blood on. Quite a cute mouth, Derek’s brain supplied, before he shook his head minutely. Not the time for that. 

“Stiles, he’s my brother and I haven’t seen him since January so quite gawking and _move,_ ” Cora broke the moment by flicking the stranger’s ear, prompting him to break his hold on Derek’s arms and shuffle to the open seat on the booth’s other end. Derek refused to find the way he rubbed the back of his neck and flushed endearing. Not the time nor place. Cora was latching her arms around his middle, bear-hugging him like his ribs had personally wronged her and she had to crush them into submission with her affection.

“What the hell’s a Stiles?” he mumbled into his sister’s hair, earning a sharp laugh.

“He’s a Stiles,” Cora jutted her head in the direction of the now less bashful-looking man to their left. “And I hear you two are actually already...acquainted?” Derek leaned back from their embrace to frown at her, blush betraying him even as he scowled.

“It was pretty freakin’ funny,” Isaac cut in from his spot past the two other strangers at the table. Lydia ‘hmmd’ demurely, glancing between the kid-- _Stiles, with the lips,_ Derek’s traitor brain supplied-- and her friends. Stiles was busy gulping down his pint, pointedly looking at the two across from him and anywhere but at Derek. 

Lydia cleared her throat. “Now that we know Stiles and Derek are proper friends, Isaac, why don’t you finish the introductions?” Isaac looked stupidly between his stage manager and Cora, who finally released Derek in favor of gesturing to the couple still smirking smugly at Stiles.

“Oh! Yeah yeah yeah, my bad. Derek, this is Erica and Boyd, I’ve known them since I was like...three? They’re all,” he gestured to include Stiles, “here on a study abroad trip before their senior year.”

“Then we’ll officially have useless degrees and the debt to match. To the American education system!” The blonde in the booth swung her pint upwards sloppily, only to have it gently removed from her hand and replaced by a glass of water by the dark and burly man beside her. “Thanks, boo,” she responded fondly, smacking a red lipstick kiss to her boyfriend’s cheek. He leaned into her neck, asking her not to call him ‘boo’ in public, but left the kiss mark on his cheek all the same. Their easy affection made something in Derek squirm longingly. His eyes drifted across the table only to catch on the sweet amber ones of the guy who had inadvertently been on his mind all afternoon. Stiles grinned a lopsided grin, licking his lips before taking another drink and pulling his gaze back to Cora.

“Aaaaand you didn’t hear a single thing I just told you about my trip because you nodded off into Derek Land, as always, didn’t you?” His sister’s fond but exasperated tone snapped Derek out of his staring, and he ducked his head.

“Sorry. Long day."

“I just got off a transcontinental flight, I get to be tired. You just had the first official day at your dream job, you get to go pick up the next round and then tell me all about it.” Cora gave her brother one last squeeze before shooing him off the the bar. As he retreated to gather more pints, Derek could hear her forcibly rearranging the table seating so she could sit both between her boyfriend and her ‘grumpy pants’ big brother. 

  


The bartender, Jordan, nodded to Derek as he approached, already gathering glasses and a tray.

“How was the show?” he asked, accepting Derek’s money as he worked the taps. 

“Good.” Jordan cocked his head. “Great, actually. Life fulfilling,” Derek admitted with a shy grin. The barman nodded genially at Derek’s further explanation, eyes drifting towards the back corner table. “My sister’s in town, too. She missed the show, but some friends of her boyfriend are here…” He noticed Jordan’s attention had waned, drawn over to a certain redhead. As usual. “...and they’re pretty jetlagged from riding unicorns across the Atlantic, but at least they don’t have their head up their own ass,” Jordan nodded like he was listening-- the signature of any good bartender-- before doing a double-take to refocus on Derek.

“Sorry, uh, yeah? Your...who now?”

Derek raised his eyebrows in mock judgement. “Cora’s in town to see Isaac. His friends are here from America. And Lydia’s here, ‘not getting any younger waiting on bartenders to get their shit together,’ as she’s told me.” Jordan grinned sheepishly, but Derek only took the tray with a tilt of his eyebrows meaning, ‘I’m not playing matchmaker for you two anymore.’ If his stage manager and his favorite bartender wanted to date, he would give them a nudge, but no more. Revealing his inner secret romantic was not something he did lightly. 

Carefully balancing the tray of ciders, Derek navigated his way back to his group. Stiles seemed to be at the end of a story, gesticulating wildly as he went.

“And I swear to god, there’s no way he could have caught up with us, but we’re waiting for this train to leave and the announcer says we’re departing in one minute and _Greenburg fuckin’ waltzes on_ , like it’s no big deal! He was half an hour behind us! This is the guy who gets lost on his way to the laundry room, and he somehow traveled halfway across London by himself and made it to the show on time. I swear, he’s got supernatural abilities or something. He sniffed us out like a, like a wolf or something. A werewolf!”

“An American werewolf in London? Seems a little cliché.” Stiles jumped at Derek’s comment, nearly toppling the leftover pint glasses in front of him. His cheeks flushed under Derek’s gaze, obviously embarrassed at Derek’s attempt at humor. _Very smooth,_ he chided himself. _Make the cheesiest reference possible, that’ll make him like you._ Wait, why did he care? At that unbidden thought, the actor broke eye contact to pass out their drinks, purposefully avoiding Stiles’ eyes. The group chattered on, sharing more ‘first time in London’ stories. Derek kept characteristically silent, trying and failing not to glance back at Stiles as he interacted animatedly with everyone else at the table. He found himself unable to fully tear his eyes away from the sight of Stiles' flailing his arms as he cracked jokes, constantly in danger of upending all the drinks on the table with his movements. Once or twice Derek’s arm jerked with the impulse to reign in those hands, to hold the long fingers between his own-- _Just to keep him from knocking over all the damn drinks,_ he told himself. In his periphery, Lydia eyed Derek knowingly. He hated that look. That was an _interfering_ kind of look.

“So, Stiles, how did you like the show today?” Lydia questioned. Stiles turned to the redhead with a surprised look, jolted from his banter with Erica about the British not believing in window screens. The grin that split his face was enchanting.

“I have never been so happy to stand up for three straight hours. Honestly, it was everything I could have wanted. I can’t _wait_ for the rest of the shows in the season. _Julius Caesar_ is my favorite Shakes play,”

Cora chimed in, “Really? That’s Derek’s favorite, too. Right, Der?” Derek didn’t look up from his drink, just shrugged one shoulder. It was, but he didn’t feel like discussing it with Stiles right now. Stiles took his silence in stride, smiling gently as he swiped at the condensation on his glass before continuing.

“I’ve heard people have passed out during _Titus_ , previews, right?”

“We open in a week and a half, and Morrell, she’s our director, she expects at least five per show,” Isaac said.

“From seeing Derek shirtless, I’m guessing?” Derek splurted cider back into his glass. Daring to look up, he caught Stiles’ eyes crinkled mischieviously. Cider dribbled a little into Derek’s beard. Stiles didn’t look away, just took a too casual sip of his drink, and-- _Motherfucker, don’t even_ \-- gave Derek another goddamn _wink_.

“No, from the blood. There’s a ton of it,” Isaac continued, scrunching his eyebrows in disdain. As often as Derek thought Cora’s boyfriend to be an idiot, he appreciated the man’s ability to be as blunt as his sister in this particular instance.

“Derek, you’ve got a little--” Lydia pointed to her friend’s chin, where he sloppily wiped his drooled drink on the back of his sleeve. His blush only deepened when he saw Stiles reach across from his seat, napkin in hand.

“Here, let me help you out,” he murmured, offering his napkin like a damsel’s token. Derek tensed, startled by their sudden closeness. He pulled back slightly, grabbing for the napkin, inadvertently brushing his hand down the length of Stiles’ fingers. “Hmmm, _and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss_ , am I right?”

Derek pushed Stiles’ hand away, grumbling, “Just leave it.” Stiles flopped back into his seat, looking defeated. He hadn’t meant to rebuke him like that; Derek just felt overwhelmed by the attention. Compliments combined with Shakespeare quotes and entrancing looks were too much for him to handle. Stiles focused back on his drink, shrinking back into himself a little. Beside him, Lydia raised an eyebrow before stamping on Derek’s toe with her sharp heel. Derek kept his eyes steadfastly on the libation in his hand, wishing its liquid courage had helped him flirt sooner. But, better late than never. 

“I mean…” Stiles looked quickly back up, waiting for Derek to finish. So softly he wasn’t sure Stiles even heard, he quoted back, “ _Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much._ ” 

The smile he got in return was electric, filled with promise. Derek couldn’t help but smile back. 

Maybe Lydia was right; there might be room in his summer for something more than just work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theatre Things to Know:  
> A stage manager is a god or goddess who runs a show once it opens; they’ve recorded all the blocking, technical cues, etc. during the rehearsal process, and are in charge of making sure the show goes up every night as it had been originally directed. They are masters of organization and leadership. I adore them, and could never be brave enough to do what they do.  
> A calling binder or book is the collection of these notes that a stage manager uses to ‘call,’ a.k.a. give cue timings, during a show.  
> When a stage manager (or whomever they have assigned this task) gives a time call, such as “Ten minutes till House is open,” the actors typically reply, “Thank you, ‘ten’” or whatever call was given. Thus, Derek’s mocking “Thank you, ‘seven.’”  
> I hope this kind of cleared up some of the theatre terms I’ve used, in case you weren’t already familiar.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm posting this now as motivation to force myself to actually finish it. It's my first fic to AO3, so be gentle. Updates...weekly? I can probably do that. Probably. The rating may change as it goes on, I don't know yet. I'll warn you if it does.


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